Bedside Days

 

In those days we kept a vigil

By her bed,

Holding her hand as she withered

On the vine.

We imagined her life

As something which, down the line, slithered

Inaudibly into the long grass, uncomplaining.

Outside, it was raining.

‘Just a few more days,’ we said,

     'Then there will be sunshine, no more rain.’

     Was she in pain?

 

We never knew;

She lay still, quietly, there.

Perhaps we did not care?

But no, surely we did;

I’d like to think we did.

 

The ‘few more days’ turned to years,

Then decades, centuries,

And still she lay.

And still she lies

Today.